


...and Brian Molko Shaves His Chest

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: The Molko Diaries [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU set in London around 2004 where Porthos and Aramis are 20 and Athos is 23.  In sexual pairing terms, this part is Aramis/Porthos, but it's OT3 all the way, baby.</p><p>Porthos is woken by a grump, learns to make coffee and finds out who lives upstairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...and Brian Molko Shaves His Chest

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe there's a hint of male breastfeeding kink.

First contact is made with their elusive upstairs neighbour at ten minutes to seven on a Sunday morning, somewhere approaching the end of October. Porthos is a student; he's never specific about dates unless deadlines must be met.

There’s a loud hammering from the hallway, solid pine is creaking under the stress, and, certain there must be a fire in the building, Porthos leaps out of bed and throws open the front door. A little too late, he remembers he’s wearing nothing but a pair of tatty boxer briefs.

A shaggy haired mess is glaring angrily at him from the other side, and the stench of booze wafting off the man is like knockout drops. He thrusts a bucket in Porthos’ hands and says simply: “Ice.”

“I- What? Pardon me?” says Porthos.

“Do you have ice?” the man says slowly, as if his tongue is so furred up that it’s finding it an impossible task to form words. 

“Yes.” Porthos frowns. “Yes, we do.” Aramis, his flat mate (and occasional horizontal mate) has bags of ice in the freezer for parties. It’s a given that there'll be a gathering here at least once a week. At very least, a get together.

“Then fill it now,” says the man, following Porthos into the kitchen and leaning on the wall as if his legs will no longer support his body. “And hurry, please. I’m late.”

Nervous, especially when he remembers he’s only wearing a pair of Primark pants, Porthos tips cubes into the bucket and then hands it back to the oddball.

The man sighs in resignation and half fills the bucket with cold water. He kneels, dunks his head in it long enough for Porthos to worry about the possibility of a suicide attempt, and then emerges, shaking himself like a wet dog.

“Thank you,” he says, heading for the door and leaving a trail of water droplets in his wake.

“You’re welcome,” says Porthos, tracking him politely, and when he tries to hand the bucket back, the man refuses it with a shake of the head.

“Keep it,” he says as if he’s offering a precious gift. “I’ll be needing it again soon. I have no room for a freezer.”

He leaves the flat, flashing Porthos a hint of blue eyes and a quarter of a smile and, even hidden away beneath that unshaven mask and set of filthy clothes, it’s enough to pique Porthos' interest. 

“I’m Porthos,” he says to the departing back.

“Athos.” The man raises a hand in farewell and stumbles up to the top floor.

“What the fuck was that?” says Aramis, who’s newly returned from a night’s shagging. “You haven’t resorted to pulling tramps, have you? You know I’m always happy to give your monster a blow when you’re feeling needy.”

Porthos grins. “That, mate, was Athos. He's from upstairs.”

“Fuck me, he’s a weird specimen,” says Aramis. "Let's hope he's not a dropper inner."

*

The second time they bump into their neighbour is a very different experience altogether. Porthos and Aramis are fighting with a dozen bags of grocery shopping, trying to barge each other through the front door of the building without it slamming shut on them, when a knight in scuffed leather armour comes to the rescue.

He’s wearing the tightest pair of jeans known to humankind, the skinniest of black tees and a jacket that looks as if it’s been in the wars -- all wars from the dawn of time. He’s jangling with silver jewellery and has a scarf looped around his neck. His hair is wet and slicked back and his huge eyes are emphasised by a thick smudge of black eyeliner. If it was Christmas Eve, he’d be in Porthos’ stocking. If it was Christmas morning, he’d be in Porthos’ pants.

“Thanks,” Porthos mumbles as the vision in fuck me jeans and biker boots pinches the keys from his index finger and opens the door of their flat.

“You’re welcome, gentlemen,” says dream boy, watching them drop their load on the kitchen floor. “Here you go, Porthos.” He chucks the keys in the air, smirking as Porthos fumbles them and ends up putting on an impromptu juggling act. “I must be getting on. Work waits for no one.”

“Wait a sec." Porthos sways from side to side, mesmerised by moodstone eyes. "Do I know you?"

"Athos, the one from upstairs." His eyes crinkle into lovely little laugh lines when he smiles. "You met hungover me, a couple of weeks ago. You're bound to meet drunk me soon. He's a regular."

"Oh, hi, yes," mumbles Porthos. "Would you like a coffee?"

Athos leans over, displaying his arse, and picks up a jar of own brand instant from the top of one of the shopping bags. He waves it at them with a disapproving frown. "When you learn to _make_ coffee, maybe I'll pop 'round and have one."

"How about a fuck then?" suggests Aramis and Porthos' hackles rise. He saw the man first, even if he didn't spot his full potential straight away.

"No thanks," says Athos with a smirk. "I don't do sex."

"Gay sex, you mean," says Aramis.

Athos shakes his head and his jewellery rattles. "Any sex. I'm not into that sort of thing."

"But everyone has sex," says Aramis, with a baffled look.

"I don't," says Athos. "I've got to go, boys. Nice talking to you."

*

Porthos spends the next fortnight learning how to make coffee. At first he buys a cheap machine from the supermarket, but the box, and instruction booklet inside it, are both liars. What it makes is plastic water that’s the colour of shit.

"Maybe it's the _type_ of coffee you're using," says Aramis.

It seems a reasonable enough assumption, and so they go on a mission to the shops to buy a grinder, and a full range of multinational beans. 

"Shall we get some wine in too?" says Porthos. The scent of old musty grapes follows Athos around a lot of the time. He must bathe in the stuff. 

Entering the wine section is a cross between opening Pandora's box and trying to make sense of a stoned Oracle. They pick three reds for a tenner and then run away.

"What are we even doing this for?" says Porthos in dismay as they load the conveyor and he realises they’ve blown an entire week's shopping money on Athos.

"Because he's fascinating," says Aramis, his eyes backlit with excitement as they always are when he’s on the prowl.

Aramis is fascinating, thinks Porthos with an inward sigh. He surrounds himself with puzzling, beautiful men. It's the modern day equivalent of self flagellation.

*

The coffee is drinkable. Porthos has found a blend of beans he likes, but it's neither heady and dark, nor is it mysterious enough to lure Athos inside. He needs to make something that smells like Turkish coffee houses. He tries adding rosewater, but it tastes like Boots the chemist.

Research (the Argos catalogue) tells him that a cafetiere might be the answer, and so he's about to make a trip to the High Street before the shops shut, when he opens the front door to discover drunk Athos curled on his mat like a stray cat.

"Oh," he says. "Why didn't you ring the doorbell?"

"Didn't know if you were in," slurs Athos.

"That's..." says Porthos, picking him up off the mat and carrying him into the flat. It isn't worth arguing the rationality of this with a drunk man. "Is it raining?" he asks when he realises Athos is soaked.

Athos shakes his head and undresses like a stripper, his clothes following him around like the water droplets had done a month ago. "A fountain," he says cryptically. "And a swimming pool. We went to Brighton."

"Why?" asks Porthos.

"Work," says Athos, taking off his socks and pants whilst simultaneously opening a bottle of red. "This is horrible," he says, necking it down and walking naked past Aramis, who's watching proceedings from the living room. He goes straight into Porthos' bedroom.

"Are we?" says Porthos hopefully.

"Are we what?" Athos glares at him, eyeliner in thick stripes beneath his eyes. He sighs, falls backwards into bed and then turns and burrows under the duvet. "I hate my life."

*

They try pretending he's not there for a while, but that doesn’t work. Instead, Porthos picks up his clothes and hangs them on the airer, whilst Aramis goes through his wallet.

"You can't do that," says Porthos. He peers over Aramis' shoulder. "What's in there?"

"Stacks of money," says Aramis. "No driving licence, no bank cards. Just cash and a receipt from The Great Frog."

They eat pizza and watch telly for a while, and then Porthos yawns and stretches.

"You're not going to bed," says Aramis, glaring at him as he innocently strolls past to do the washing up.

"But I'm tired," says Porthos and a grin sneaks out.

"You can sleep with me," says Aramis.

"I prefer my bed." Porthos grins again. "It's bigger."

"If it's that big, we can all sleep in it," says Aramis stubbornly.

They sulk for a while as they're getting ready, but their bad moods never last long, and as soon as they're in the bedroom, they look at each other and then down at their new pet.

"We should all be naked," says Aramis.

Porthos nods. "Otherwise he might feel compromised." 

The argument is a poor one, but Aramis doesn't seem to care. "All for one," he says, stripping off happily.

"And one for all," sniggers Porthos, clothes flying everywhere as he nudges Athos over and climbs in beside him.

"Are we mad?" whispers Aramis as they share his body heat.

They're sleeping naked with their drunk neighbour who's declared himself to be asexual. It’s certainly not normal behaviour, thinks Porthos. 

*

His dreams are strange echoes of motherhood, and Porthos wakes to find Athos curled onto him, fast asleep with his mouth latched onto a nipple. 

"You're insane," he murmurs, “and I know you're going to drive me there.” The sensation is softly sexual but, at the same time, comforting: a deep internal pull that draws him back to sleep.

*

"Oh, fuck me sideways!"

Is there such a thing as a whispered exclamation of horrified pleasure? If there isn’t, then Aramis has just invented it. 

Porthos opens his eyes to discover that Athos is still plastered sweaty between them, but this time he’s pressed up against Aramis and is suckling away.

“Oh, fuck me,” says Aramis again, and with eyes fixed on Porthos, he reaches down to touch Athos privately.

“No thanks,” Athos says, rolling over onto his back with a languid stretch.

“You were.” Aramis coughs. “Licking me.”

“I do that a lot.” Athos climbs over Porthos and gets out of bed. “I have recurring dreams about breastfeeding from my father. Don’t worry, I’m not abused or anything. My psychiatrist says it’s perfectly normal.”

It’s difficult to argue the validity of that statement. Porthos wouldn’t know where to begin, and he watches in bewilderment as Athos holds his head in place and leaves the bedroom. There’s a loud stream of pissing then more footsteps. After that comes the sound of ice cubes chinking against metal, followed by a tap running. 

“What’s that?” says Aramis, looking around at the sudden splash.

Porthos shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “He’s putting his head in a bucket.”

Aramis doesn’t question this, and they both seem a bit relieved when the front door opens and closes.

“Should we be scared?” says Aramis after their guest has gone. He leans up on an elbow and flicks Porthos on the nipple. 

“Terrified, I think.” Porthos lets out a sighs as Aramis bends his head to latch on to him. “Are you role playing?”

Aramis looks up with a wicked grin. “Are you complaining?”

“Fuck no.”

They’re both too excitable to bother with the prep needed for sex. Aramis covers him like a blanket, and the nipple play and heavy frottage is just reaching its peak when Porthos notices a distinct smell of really good coffee filtering through into his non sexual senses.

“Bloody hell,” he murmurs, staring at the open bedroom doorway and then at Aramis. They’d been getting into their games a _lot_.

Aramis stares back at him and thrusts harder. He leans down to whisper in Porthos’ ear. “He’s a liar. Bet he’s watching us now with a hard on the size of la Tour d’Eiffel.”

“A hand stuffed in his pants,” smirks Porthos, the image fixing nicely in his brain.

“He’ll come when we do,” says Aramis. “Have to wash his sticky fingers in the bucket and run away.”

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” cries Porthos and it’s not for effect.

Aramis buries his own sounds in Porthos’ neck and shudders out a mighty orgasm.

“If you’ve finished, I’ve made breakfast,” comes an eloquent drawl from the living room.

Aramis shrugs and climbs off Porthos to go and investigate, with Porthos following behind him like a puppy. Once again, he remembers too late about the benefits of clothes.

Breakfast turns out to be fabulous coffee accompanied by a dusty bottle of wine. Athos doesn’t look as if he’s been wanking in his pants. Once again, he’s transformed from nymph to butterfly. He’s pretty and jangly, stretched out across the only sofa, reading Le Monde.

He sits up to make room and then inspects them with an air of distaste. “A shower is always a good thing in the morning.”

“You could have joined in,” says Aramis, wiggling his hips, and Porthos watches a trickle of come glide shamelessly down those sculpted abs.

“I could have done, but I didn’t.” Athos takes a sip of coffee, combines it with a slug of wine and then stretches out again.

Porthos doesn’t want to miss any part of the conversation, but nor does he want to stand here in a sweaty, sticky state, especially when his screwed up, asexual, sex god of a neighbour finds it so unattractive. Racing for the shower, he scrubs himself clean in a hurry and, leaving it running for Aramis, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a vest.

“...and Brian Molko shaves his chest,” Athos is saying.

Porthos sits next to him. “What have I missed?”

“He likes bodies apparently, but not the mess that comes out of them.” Aramis heads for the bathroom. “Ours are also too hairy,” he shouts.

Athos lounges across Porthos, turns a page and folds the paper in half.

“Too hairy eh?” says Porthos, wanting to stroke Athos and then giving in and doing so. Pushing up into the touch, Athos lets out this low growl of pleasure, and Porthos wonders how someone so visceral and tactile can reject something that’s fun, free and readily available. “So, we’re not your type?”

“If I enjoyed having sex then you’d both be my perfect type,” says Athos. “As it is, you’re simply perfect.” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards as he looks at Porthos from around the side of the paper. “For a cushion.”


End file.
